The Heat of the Fabric
by ispoli16
Summary: "In the throes of the darkest nights London ever knew, where no one would ever see, he would crush the coat to his chest in his sleep and dream about the genuine, if baffling, affection that came with it." One-shot. Rated for suicidal themes.


_This is my first Sherlock fic, so I know it may be rough around the edges._

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock, its characters, its plot, or anything pertaining to it. I'm simply here to borrow its characters for a bit.**

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When he saw that the coat was missing from its hanger, he thought he'd finally lost his mind. Honestly, he didn't know how it hadn't happened sooner.

Over the months, the coat became a permanent fixture in the flat, hanging from a hook on the front door, fixed high up to keep it from sweeping the ground. It was thick and dark and heavy, with bits of grit and dirt embedded in the sleeves and along the tall collar. He refused to take it to the cleaner's or even run a lint brush over the fabric every now and then. When Mrs. Hudson gently suggested he bring it in to have the bloodstains removed, he pulled his shaking hand out from under hers and turned away.

When she left the flat an hour later, he removed the coat from its hook - carefully, reverently - and pressed it to his face, inhaling the scent he would never, never wash out of the threads. It smelled of antiseptic and cologne and detergent, lingering chemical scents immune to the days and weeks passed since the coat had last left the flat. It smelled even more faintly of sweat and blood and something he could never name, though the time he spent trying to identify the elusive fragrance was immeasurable. It was for these scents he could never clean the coat, never stash it in the back of a closet, never donate it to the charities that left flyers on his doorstep.

Sometimes he dreamt about the scent. Sometimes he dreamt about the baritone voice and ice-blue eyes that went with it.

Those dreams were nothing like the ones of Afghanistan, with the heat and dust of a foreign desert thousands of miles away. They were staggering in their clarity and depth of color, and he would curl more tightly into himself as he slept, trying to warm himself with the memories of adrenaline that came with the voice, and the feeling of illicit danger and thrill that came with the coat. In the throes of the darkest nights London ever knew, where no one would ever see, he would crush the coat to his chest in his sleep and dream about the genuine, if baffling, affection that came with those eyes. The coat smelled of friendship, even if it was hardly likely the bond could ever have existed at all.

It was certain that it did not anymore. When he woke up, the coat was always cold, not even warmed by the heat of his body against the fabric.

Though it never made nights easier to bear, he would gather the coat in his arms and struggle through the darkness, sighing with the weariness of a soldier who has seen too much as he placed it back on the hook every morning. Well-meaning hands tried to take it from him, murmuring words like _unhealthy_ and _painful_ and _wretched_, but his own hands would wrap like vices around the cuffs, holding tight as if its owner was falling and had only him to stop it.

The owner of the coat wasn't there, though. He hadn't been able to stop him from falling the first time.

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There came a day when the coat began to lose its fragrance, absorbing the scents of tea and sweat and the stale air of the flat, where Mrs. Hudson could never cajole him to open the windows. There came a day when the coat began to smell like any other coat. Much, much later, there came a day when he accepted this and hung it behind the door, vowing in steely resolve to leave it there later that night.

Hours later, when his resolve shattered under the threat of nightmares and loneliness and icy misery, he found the coat missing and knew he'd finally gone insane.

Some small, dark, ugly part of him had awaited this day for weeks, needing a reason, but never finding enough to make it right. There was always the idea of judgement and weakness and the knowledge that he'd never be forgiven. If he lost his mind, he figured that had to be reason enough.

It was seconds or hours before he found himself gazing out at the London skyline, his hands steady for the first time in months, and as he took a breath of the starry air he knew it would be easy. For years he followed and observed and learned to think like it was his own mystery to solve, his own case to crack, and there was no reason on earth this should be any different. It was his case now, the case of the missing coat and the missing voice and eyes that grounded him in the world of pain and fear and endlessness in which he found himself those years ago, freshly invalided from the battlefields of Kandahar. This case was no different than the others, really, except that it was so much more important than anything he'd ever done. It was no different except that he was alone this time.

Standing at the edge, he dared to look at the street below, and there was no adrenaline or danger or fear or excitement, only certainty that if he retraced the steps of the owner of the coat, he would find them eventually. That's what he'd come there to do. A true detective would never give up on their case.

He could think of nothing else, and when the gloved hand wrapped around his wrist and pulled him back he scarcely registered the touch, fighting his way back to the edge, back to the last step in solving the mystery after which he pined. The hands that held him back hardly mattered - how could he, a newly-minted madman, even know whether or not they were real? - and he struggled and pushed with the listless strength of a weary fighter in his last battle, focused on one end and one end only, until he heard a baritone voice speak his name, and he froze.

He began to tremble, his entire body quaking with force he never knew he possessed, as the gloved hand reached out to rest against the scratchy expanse of his cheek and turned his head away from the edge of the roof. Something hot and sharp slashed through his body as he heard his name again, and the hand moved under his chin, raising his head until his eyes met icy blue ones, wet and glistening and staring with the intensity of a stargazer on a cloudy night.

The heat returned, acute and swift and fiercer than he ever believed he could survive, filling him like a balloon, and his body spasmed in a rush of breath and blood and life as he threw himself against the chest of the figure in front of him. There was no rooftop any longer, no stars, no night or dreams or misery, nothing at all save for the the scents of gasping sobs, scents of cologne and detergent, of sweat and aftershave, of adrenaline and adventure, and Sherlock's arms tight around John's trembling form.

There was nothing in the world worth noticing, he was suddenly sure, besides the man he held in his arms, warm and strong and utterly alive, whom he nearly crushed with the weight of pain and joy and violent relief. There was nothing but the tears soaking the collar of the dark woolen coat, nothing but the pulse beating surely, steadily, at the jugular of the figure wrapped in its warmth.

In the spaces between their bodies as they embraced on the roof, there was nothing but the fire of something they might have named love, had either of them been able to speak.

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_I hope you enjoyed - please leave a review! Any comments / criticisms / thoughts would be amazing. _


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